But this was not altogether accurate as to details.  He did come down-stairs many times daily, and he persisted in billiards regardless of the paroxysms.  We found, too, that the seizures were induced by mental agitation.  One night he read aloud to Jean and myself the first chapter of an article, “The Turning-Point in My Life,” which he was preparing for Harper’s Bazar.  He had begun it with one of his impossible burlesque fancies, and he felt our attitude of disappointment even before any word had been said.  Suddenly he rose, and laying his hand on his breast said, “I must lie down,” and started toward the stair.  I supported him to his room and hurriedly poured out the hot water.  He drank it and dropped back on the bed.

“Don’t speak to me,” he said; “don’t make me talk.”

Jean came in, and we sat there several moments in silence.  I think we both wondered if this might not be the end; but presently he spoke of his own accord, declaring he was better, and ready for billiards.

We played for at least an hour afterward, and he seemed no worse for the attack.  It is a curious malady—­that angina; even the doctors are acquainted with its manifestations, rather than its cause.  Clemens’s general habits of body and mind were probably not such as to delay its progress; furthermore, there had befallen him that year one of those misfortunes which his confiding nature peculiarly invited—­a betrayal of trust by those in whom it had been boundlessly placed—­and it seems likely that the resulting humiliation aggravated his complaint.  The writing of a detailed history of this episode afforded him occupation and a certain amusement, but probably did not contribute to his health.  One day he sent for his attorney, Mr. Charles T. Lark, and made some final revisions in his will.—­[Mark Twain’s estate, later appraised at something more than $600,000 was left in the hands of trustees for his daughters.  The trustees were Edward E. Loomis, Jervis Langdon, and Zoheth S. Freeman.  The direction of his literary affairs was left to his daughter Clara and the writer of this history.]

To see him you would never have suspected that he was ill.  He was in good flesh, and his movement was as airy and his eye as bright and his face as full of bloom as at any time during the period I had known him; also, he was as light-hearted and full of ideas and plans, and he was even gentler—­having grown mellow with age and retirement, like good wine.

And of course he would find amusement in his condition.  He said: 

“I have always pretended to be sick to escape visitors; now, for the first time, I have got a genuine excuse.  It makes me feel so honest.”

And once, when Jean reported a caller in the livingroom, he said: 

“Jean, I can’t see her.  Tell her I am likely to drop dead any minute and it would be most embarrassing.”

But he did see her, for it was a poet—­Angela Morgan—­and he read her poem, “God’s Man,” aloud with great feeling, and later he sold it for her to Collier’s Weekly.